


Carpe Noctem

by IWrtBksNtTrgds (orphan_account)



Series: Folie á Deux Series [2]
Category: All Time Low, Blink-182, Ed Sheeran - Fandom, Fall Out Boy, Green Day, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, Pierce the Veil, The Academy Is..., pvris
Genre: Anxiety, BPD, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Dissassociation, Dissassociative Identity Disorder, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Mental Institutions, Multi, Multiple Personality Disorder, PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Rape Aftermath, Schizophrenia, Smut, Trauma, did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/IWrtBksNtTrgds
Summary: After the apparent death of his foster brother, Patrick's sent to a mental institution where he's told he'll get better. Still trying to keep up his mask, he makes his way through this new hell and tries to cope when the only thing keeping him together is a tiny string of hope.





	1. Rock Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing against Lynn Gunn or any of the other characters in this book that's just how I wrote Patrick so sorry guys :/
> 
> Anyways! Hope you enjoy the second installment of Folie á Deux! Be sure to kudos, bookmark, or comment :)

"It wasn't Patrick, Ms. Love... It was Frank. He's the one who hurt me."

"Who's Frank, Honey?"

"He's the voice inside Patrick's head, but he's the bad guy. He said he liked to hurt people... Is... is that normal?"

"Honey... I... I'll be right back... I need to call Jones."

***

/November 27th, 2017/

/If you asked me seven months ago if I'm okay, you would have gotten a solid answer. Something confident and sure and maybe a little arrogant. I would have rolled my eyes and jotted down in my full little notebook in two little words something sarcastic and dumb and pissy and you would have been able to tell just from the way I'd write it that I don't like answering to trivial questions like that. If you had asked me seven months ago if I'm okay, you would get a solid: /I'm fine/ and one of my signature frustrated sighs. And you would have thought nothing of it. I'm a guy who hates everybody and everything, and it's always been that way. I'm a guy who doesn't have a goal in life other than to just be away from people.

/I'm just some normal guy.

/If you had asked me six months ago if I'm okay, I would give a shaky nod and quickly avoid you. It would be a scared answer, I would be terrified of you and I would watch your every move. I would probably speak to you, too, if I knew you well enough. If not I would write down in shaky hand writing in my new notebook with about a quarter of the pages full one little, illegible word. If you had asked me six months ago if I'm okay, you would get a small word like lying through teeth: /fine/ and a shaky, fake smile. You would have realized something was wrong, but you would also know it's no use to get any information from me. I'd lie, and lie, and lie. /I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine./ Maybe it would get to some point where you would just give up.

/Either way, I was some weird kid. Something was seriously wrong with me.

/If you had asked me five months ago if I'm okay, I would stare at you with wide, terrified eyes and slowly back away with shaking hands. I would have shaken my head and I would have begun crying. Because, no. God dammit. I wasn't. I was anything /but/ okay. I was terrified and anything you did would be met with me scrambling away and begging you not to hurt me. It would matter how close we were. I was broken. I was fucking shattered and no matter how hard you may have tried to make peace, you would have never really gotten there. I was gone. I was so gone and afraid and the only person I ever really trusted was a boy who wasn't any better off than me. If you had asked me five months ago if I'm okay, I would have written in two decent sized letters and hard handwriting: /No/

/I was a broken man.

/If you had asked me three months ago if I'm okay, you would have gotten four different answers, each different and unique. One would be from a boy named Patrick and he would say to you, "I'm fine," and it would be sincere, because he was sincere. He really would be okay and you would think you knew different but, honestly? You wouldn't know anything.

/The second would come out a stutter from a boy named Mikey and it would say, "I-I think I-I'm o-okay... I-I'm n-not really s-sure right n-n-now, though," and he would shy away and not answer anymore questions. You could tell he's trying. He really is trying. But something about him would stray you off. Something about him would make you uneasy, because something happened to him. And now he's not okay. And nobody's really sure what happened to him, but Patrick would relate very close to him.

/The third would ponder the question, because the third? He thinks too much. His name would be Ryan and after a long, long time of thinking and considering he would reply, "I'm okay. Patrick isn't, though. No matter what he says," and then he'd probably go off on some kind of psychological rant. That's just what Ryan does, though. He thinks he knows, but in all honesty, he's buried under all his insecurities as the rest of us. The insecurity that being gay has to has some sort of psychological analogy to it. The insecurity that he'll never be as great as the rest of his family because he's... he's just a useless dirty faggot. Why would he be anything else? Who would believe in a gay after all?

/And finally, the fourth would give you a mischievous grin and come up to you just like he does. He would call himself Frank and he would get close, almost too close, and with those cold brown eyes he would say, "I'm doing just fine, Darling. But the real issue is whether or not /you're/ okay," and he would cup your jaw with those cold fingertips and send shivers and goosebumps up your arms and you couldn't help but just reply. He is doing fine, but he's thinking too much to /really/ focus on the question. The less people know about him, the faster and easier his victims are.

/I was some messed up kid.

/If you asked me two months ago if I'm okay, I would look at you with hollow, blue eyes because, honestly? Honestly, I'd be too dead inside to answer. If you had asked me two months ago if I'm okay, I would hold those metal cuffs tighter around my wrists, avoid your gaze, and shake my head solemnly. Because it was solemn. It was as solemn as I'll ever get. Because I was broken. Because I nearly killed my own brother and the only thing stopping me from going into a full out depressive spiral was because Justin had talked to me just a little while earlier with those cuts across his skin and those bruises around his throat and he had told me he doesn't blame me. That it wasn't me. It was Frank.

/Goddamn was I lucky those doctors saved him.

/If you had asked me one month ago if I'm okay, I'd be in a room in my own little world while Dr. Williams and Jones would talk amongst each other about what the hell they were going to do about the court and how Jones could get things figured out and about how all I had to do was admit to my illnesses and I would have to sit there in court while Jones retold the story about where I was just four months earlier, about Victor Fuentes, his serious mental issues including pedophilia, and his drug cartel. If you had asked me if I'm okay? I would probably just pull my knees to my chest and shake my head, seconds away from crying.

/I was terrified.

/If you ask me right now if I'm okay, sitting here in a--what the fuck is this place? A fucking insane asylum? I would look you right in the eye and laugh mutely, a chuckle. A 'Are you fucking kidding me?' kind of tone, you could tell by my expression. If you ask me right now if I'm okay, I would roll my eyes and write in my little notebook that: /I'm fine,/ and I really would mean it. Because I am fine. 

/I just wish they'd stop using the goddamned group therapy.

/Her name is Dr. Gunn--thank fuck it's not a guy--and she's a fucking piece of work. She's got this long, white hair that reaches to around her shoulders and dark blue eyes and she always wears this bright white overcoat. It's the cheesiest goddamn thing I've seen. Of course /all/ the doctors and nurses here have to wear them, but it's still stupid as hell. It looks ridiculous, like they're trying to blend in with the walls of the same color or just waiting for some kind of blood to get on it. 

/Mentally, she's even worse. She always has this happy today's-gonna-be-a-great-day attitude with a hint of if-you-fight-me-you're-damn-well-gonna-regret-it. Of course that made me outright laugh when she said people who don't behave here get put into isolation because, yeah. Frank can fucking suck my balls. But I know damn well he could break me out of it with fucking ease.

/If /he/ doesn't find me first./

I blink myself away from that thought, looking around the room instead. No more of those thoughts. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

We're a circle of ten, I don't know everyone's names, but dear god I hope I never do. To the very left, there's this ginger guy. He's not completely ginger but he's got this faded orange hair and bright green eyes and a pierced lip. His name is Bob, the only reason I know that is because I have to room with him, and Bob is probably the easiest fucking name to learn. He's a pretty nice guy, though, so I don't mind him too bad. He's just really bad about cleaning up his shit. I'm not entirely sure what he has, I think he's got some kind of addiction and he's going through withdrawals. Not sure what he was addicted to, nor do I care.

To his right are a couple of guys, one has this rounded jawline and some stubble. He constantly looks tired as hell and has this habit of pulling his hair back and tugging at it. He's always holding the other guy's hand, squeezing shakily. I think he has some sort of anxiety disorder. On the other hand, the other guy (his name is Jon) looks homeless. He's got shaggy brown hair and this full ass beard. Everything about him is a bit of a mess but I'd be lying if I didn't say his smile is at least a little cute.

Beside them is this tall, lanky guy named Dallie or something like that. He's got another pair of brown eyes and this dark hair he has pulled back. Like... straight back. it's a little shorter than Jon and Mr. Addict's but still around that length. He's a pretty quiet guy, doesn't speak unless spoken to and only if he has to. It's like he's selectively mute but he doesn't want to disobey anyone. I think that's some sort of anxiety, but not super bad.

After Dal is me, past me and on are a group of three guys. The one closest to me is named Mike or something like that. He's got short bleached blond hair and light eyes and I'm sure if they didn't put us in theses stupid uniforms, he would be showing off a sleeve of tattoos or something and be wearing sleeveless vests in the darkest color they make. He doesn't talk much, kind of just keeps to himself and listens. He's a wallflower. An introvert. He's alright. Somewhat tolerable.

To the right of Mike is this other guy with black hair and a constant cocky look on his face. It's the most annoying thing. He has the posture of a banana and I haven't seen him much but he just kind of hangs around his trio and laughs. All the fucking time. It's annoying as all hell and he never shuts up. He's kind of got the same style of Mike, though. I've seen some of his tattoos, though, and I'm sure he's a recovering addict of something. Probably weed.

The last of their trio is this man named Three or something like that (get it? Because he's the third of their group? I didn't laugh either) and he's the weirdest. He's got brown hair and green eyes and since he's got no hair gel so his hair just kind of stays down all the time. It's weird. He's the loudest of them, has this weird voice, too. And just like the other two, he's probably recovering from some kind of addiction.

The two last guys I don't know well. One of them is this brighter ginger like Bob, but his hair is much more vibrant and he's got more of a beard. I think he's twenty something, he's kind of attractive but sort of the cuddly type. I also think he's from England or something like that. He has the accent and tons of tattoos (from what I've seen of the slips of his shirt). He's actually a pretty cool guy, he hangs out with Billie's trio and Bob so that's cool.

Finally, there's the last guy. I'm not entirely sure what his name actually is but I think it's Trav or something like that. He always glares at everyone, he never smiles, he always has his hood up over a beanie he always wears. I've seen him around through the two days I've been here but I've never actually talked to him and very rarely have I heard his voice. a guy with darker skin and tattoos that reach up to his neck and so many fucking piercings that I can't even keep track anymore. Two in his bottom lip, I'm pretty sure he has two in his top lip, a nose piercing, a couple of gages in his ears and I think he might have had an eyebrow piercing at one point but I'm not entirely sure. Nobody talks to him, he doesn't talk to anybody.

Bob told me he's a schizophrenic. Not sure what delusions he has. He's been here for over two years and everyone talks about how he's only getting crazier and crazier. He has a phobia of being abandoned, so he just cut out everyone in his life. He also talks to himself at night.

Or he talks to his /voices./ 

I sit back in my seat. It's not like I care about any of these people. It's not like I'll know them for more than a few months. The doctors will realize I'm not crazy, they'll realize that Frank is supposed to come out. They'll realize I can learn to control him. It'll be fine. Right?

"Dallon? What about you, how's your week been?" Dr. Gunn asks. Dallon's eyes go wide and his hands begin to shake as he looks up at her. Anxiety is basically radiating off of him, I can feel it. The brunette shrugs, lowering his terrified eyes and tapping his foot rapidly. He's afraid of being judged, afraid of being the center of attention and that's exactly what the doctor's done to him. I get that feeling sometimes. I feel like I'm the center of attention and they can just know. And they can just see everything I've been thorugh in my entire life. I get the feeling that they know about the drughouse. That they know about /him/ and Pete and Jones and Dr. Williams and everything about me. I wish the doctors would realize that.

"Dallon." She has a hint of warning in her voice and just like magic, the patient is replying. Verbally.

"I-It was o-okay..." Dallon mumbles, a soft flush covering his cheeks.

Dr. Gunn smiles slightly, then turns to me, satisfied with a three word answer. I don't work that way, though. Oh dear god, no, "What about you, Patrick? You got here yesterday, didn't you?"

I glare straight at her, my eyes piercing hers and my hands keeping my notebook close. We just kind of /stare/ at each other, neither of us wants to back down and it's damn near the stupidest thing I've ever done. Everyone around us is watching awkwardly or just staring at me. I just arrived and I'm /already/ challenging the doctor? /Gasp!/ What /ever/ willthey do? I can feel Trav's eyes on me, though. And that interests me. I want to talk with him if he'll let me or I get the chance.

"Patrick," Dr. Gunn warns, "Please answer the question."

I roll my eyes, leaning back and just continuing to write. Fuck her, she can go fall off a cliff and die for all I care. I don't give two shits about her. I don't give two shits about anyone in this room. The only person I care about, the only person I will /ever/ care about is at his house, a few blocks away from my own, probably visibly shaking in terror. He's been abandoned. Just like I promised I'd never do.

I fucking did it. Because I'm a fucked up piece of shit and I can't keep something as simple as a promise for a person I've never cared more for in my life.

I fucked up.

"Then what about you, Mike?" Dr. Gunn replies, turning to the blond beside me, "How has your week gone?"

"Well, actually," Mike clears his throat, "We have a question for you."

Gunn raises her eyebrow as Mike and the black haired guy and Three chuckle within each other. Mike has to take a deep breath before actually asking the question which is the biggest waste of time in my life, honestly.

"Is it considered /gay/ to make love to your own hand?"

Billie bursts out laughing, I hear an immature chuckle from my left, I think from either Dallon or Jon or Bob. I don't know which one but dear /God/ I hope it's not Bob. I don't want to be roomed with someone that immature. But can't you see why I don't like it here? Those kinds of jokes are just so stupid and I'm not trying to be all preppy like I'm better than that, but it's just hard for me to find humor in anything, I guess. Everything just reminds me of my past and that kind of shit just doesn't amuse me. 

"/Mike/!" Gunn gasps, "I told you no to say anything sexual in this room. This is a safe space and that's a potential trigger for many people in this room, /including/ Billie."

"Oh hush," Mike groans, "We all know he's a hardcore exhibitionist, no need to rub it in everyone's face. Sex is sex, nothin' to be ashamed of." 

Dr. Gunn watches him for a moment more, disapprovingly before turning onto the dark haired guy--Billie, "What about you? How did your week go?"

"I didn't show off my dick," Billie replies cheekily, "And Mark didn't /encourage/ me to show off my dick. Is that an improvement?"

"Very much so," Gunn smiles, obviously trying to regain her serious and friendly tone, "Anything else you'd like to share that doesn't... involve your... uhm... penis?"

"I've got something to tell that involves /Tre's/ penis if you--"

"Billie!"

Okay, maybe I /do/ smirk just the slightest.

I watch as Tre finishes laughing before he nods to where Dr. Gunn is now looking to him expectantly, "Yeah, yeah, lady. It was a good week, whatever. I don't got much to say."

Dr. Gunn rolls her eyes, then looks to that other ginger kid, "What about you, then, Ed? How has your week gone?"

Ed shrugs slightly, picking at his skin but the doctor immediately reaches out to stop it and he quickly lets go, "I-it was alright, I mean I haven't relapsed so... Y-yeah..."

"Any particularly bad spots?"

Ed shrugs, "No."

Dr. Gunn watches him thoughtfully for a moment, then turns to the last kid. Trav. He's sitting with his knees to his chest and his hood covering his face, arms holding his legs close. He doesn't move. Doesn't look. Nothing. He's weird, but he's somewhat interesting. The way his cold eyes peek out from his hood and how when he's especially pissed, he'll tug off his hood and glare right in the eyes of anyone who stares. I want to talk to him even though I know damn well he would never do that.

"Travis?"

He doesn't do anything. Doesn't speak, doesn't move, just sits there, not speaking a word to any of us. Everything is completely silent and I'm afraid Billie or Tre will crack one of their stupid jokes or /something/. But there's nothing. Only pure silence. It stays like that for at least a solid two minutes before Dr. Gunn clears her throat and turns back to the rest of us, "Alright well, I think that'll be it for today. Don't forget to check in tomorrow at five o'clock sharp."

I'm already out of my seat, notebook in my arms and fingers tapping nervously across the dark cover. I don't want to be here anymore because no matter how much she may try to make us enjoy whatever the fuck this shit is, I'd never. Not even if I fucking tried. It's pathetic, group therapy. It's stupid that no matter how hard we may try to think that this shit will help us, I know damn well that it will never help. Honestly, the only hope for people like us anymore thrive in baby blue pills and even those barely work. The only escape from any of this shit that will guarantee our safety is the release of death. It's the only way to make it all stop. 

I've never been really suicidal, though. Sure, I've had my episodes where all I want to do is die, but it's been toned down. I'm okay with this, I just... I just wish I had Pete.

"He betrayed you. He never loved you, he hit you. You said it yourself. You /hate/ him. So quit acting like you need him when you don't."

I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk past Dr. Gunn, but I hear her voice not long after, calling my name.

"Patrick? Could you come here for a moment?"

I set out a long, tortured sigh, eyes rolling in frustration but I comply (for the most part). I turn, stare right into her shitty face and stare expectantly. It's true, we haven't talked much besides the inital tour, much less have we actually had an appointment with one another (like I fucking need it) and she's basically been begging me to stop for a moment and listen to her. I'm not entirely sure why I even turn in the first place. Maybe because I feel a hint of sympathy for the poor soul but, whatever. It's not like it matters. It would have happened eventually.

She beams at me from where she stands in front of Tyler's empty seat and turns as soon as the last person leaves, "Would you mind going to my office? I'll be right there, I need to talk to a couple patients really quick but I'll be there, alright? We're gonna have our first appointment, yeah?"

I roll my eyes but I find myself nodding not long after, turning again and leaving the way to head to her office (I visited it when she was fist filing my folder of shit. It's an ugly place. Honest. It makes me want to kill myself more even more than I already do). My feet pull me through the endless halls, on and on. Turning past the cafeteria and instead to room 21B. I pass by several people whom I don't recognize, Bob has his head down. One guy--who hangs out with Billie and Mike and Tre--is laughing alongside his friend Mark. He's got this short hair trapped under a dark, skin-tight baseball cap.

It kind of makes me sick, how they can be so okay with the fact that they're all crazy. It makes me sick how they can all just laugh and smile amongst each other when in all reality, they're slowly going crazy. The only person who isn't crazy? The only person who isn't a complete and total fucking looney? Me. I'm the only one who isn't obsessed with some kind of fucking fantasy of stripping down and showing off my cock. I don't see things. I don't just fucking /hear/ voices. 

I have people in my head. Simple as that. I just wish people would fucking understand that. I /wish/. Goddamn do I wish.

I stop in front of the door, 21B. A black plate with gold lettering shows her name just below the room number: Doctor Lyndsey Gunn. What the fuck kind of name /is/ that? Then again, I guess it's better than Patrick Love. Or better yet: /Unknown./

My feet somehow drag me inside and to the cushioned seating across from her chair, dark brown leather, decorated with an absolutely /wonderful/ collection of scratches. It's so bad, I swear it makes me want to puke. Honestly? It's just another stupid reminder that I don't belong here. It's just another fucking excuse that everything here is just fucking fine. Someone could get traumatized just living here for more than a day. Thank fuck it doesn't bother me that much. I've got tough skin. Especially... especially after /him./

I blink away that thought. /He's/ not here. He can't be here. Not here, not now. I know I can't trust anyone to do it for me anymore. Not after Jones and Love and Williams and Frank. Not after Pete. Not... not after what he did...

I wince as I'm pulled out of my thought by the slamming of the wood door and Dr. Gunn's fingers prancing delicately over a solid clipboard in her hand. She looks so psyched to see me when in all reality, I'd much rather kill myself than be in this stupid counseling session. I just want to die, is that too much to fucking ask? To just go? And not be bothered? Goddamn, I know I say it a lot but people never done a good thing. Ever.

"Patrick, so," She clears her throat, pressing away her clipboard to instead replace the papers with files from one of her cabinets. I manage to sneak a peak at the name. /Unknown (Patrick Love)/ and I can't help but see it from so long ago. The file Dr. Williams. The bright orange hair. The dark brown eyes, the cherry smile.

/I hear her shuffling through a drawer in her desk, through all the folders of her patients—her victims and I can't help but to turn my gaze from the wall to see what she's doing. My lip is trapped between my teeth as she goes, nervously tugging at the skin. No, no, no. She pulls out a yellow-white folder from the drawer and places it on the desk, my name on it.

/Unknown (Patrick Stump)

/Dr. Williams shuts the drawer agonizingly slow before she opens the folder and turns to me in her seat, announcing the contents inside, "Name: Unknown. Date of Birth: Unknown. Eye color: Green. Hair color: Blonde. Age: Approximately seventeen years. Height: 5' 4". Um... Let's see..."/

I miss her. I really do.

"Shut up, Patrick, you don't miss her for shit. You know damn well she betrayed you just like Pete. Just like Jones. Just like everybody you've ever known. And you know what? It's all because of you that they left, it's all because you're such a pathetic piece of shit. Don't even try to deny it. You're unlovable. You can't even learn to love. Pete was right there for you and you just had to fuck it all up, didn't you? God, you're so stupid."

I wince, looking away and avoiding Lynn's eyes as I pull my knees to my chest and stare instead at the door. 

"I feel like we should establish some points before we start here, would that be alright? To figure out what and what not you're okay to talk about right now? And from there we can figure out where you'd like to go, alright?"

I nod numbly, grabbing my notebook and pen and opening to the first blank page.

/1. I don't talk about him.  
2\. I don't talk about anything involving what happened.  
3\. Don't give me any flashbacks and I might trust you./

I hand the notebook over, looking away as she reads over the small text. I've been writing in my notebook so long, honestly. For five or six years, now and I've learned how to write small and neat. I remember reading back on my writing from years ago when I could barely write because of how much education I missed out on and now, it's much better. So much better.

"Him? As in the boy that was with you?"

I glare right at her because she must be really fucking stupid if she thinks that's who I'm talking about. Don't they put that shit in my file or something? Or... y'know... anything about me?

/Him as in Pete's dad./

She nods in understanding with a long, "Ooh," and hands back my notebook for me to handle like it's fragile. She doesn't try to look through it like Ms. Love often did. So I guess that's kind of good. She at least respects my privacy.

"Alright, what about... what about the little accident that involved you and Justin and Frank, the one you went to court for?"

That "little accident" that nearly ended up with me in jail, Justin dead, and Jesus Christ fucking Frank on a killing spree? Yeah. Sure. Some /little/ accident. I'll be sure to add that to my mini mistakes collection of all the times I've plotted world domination and the number of people I have in my basement.

/What about it?/

"Well I mean, would you be comfortable talking about it?"

Oh my god.

/Yes./

Dr. Gunn smiles brightly, then turns back to her paper and hums, "Alright Patrick. Do you think you could tell me about what exactly /happened/ on that day? Who did you talk with, when did you black out? Anything specific happen that lead up to the actual... incident."

The actual incident? Because it's so scary that I can't say what happened. I'm probably overreacting to everything she says, honestly, but I don't really care. In my defense, I've had a shit day to begin with (It began with Bob fucking screaming bloody murder in his bunk and me quickly finding the first staff member I could find, then me trying to get a shower with nobody else fucking staring at me and me just giving up and deciding to do it alone next time, then that fucking group therapy session...)

/Well, I went to the store, saw Frank, blacked out, and woke up in my room covered in Justin's blood./

I hope that's straight-forward enough for her. 

She purses her lips, looking across the paper for a long-ass moment, then pulls back and sets her clipboard aside for a moment to focus her attention on me. And, much to my surprise, she doesn't even take notes! What is this madness?

"Had you talked to Frank at all prior to this?"

I sigh softly as I look away and after a long moment, I nod, avoiding her eyes again.

"Can you tell me what you two talked about? Or what happened to make you resort to him?" 

It's seriously bothering me with how thorough these questions are. She knows what to ask to make me tick. She knows and that scares me. Nobody is supposed to know. Nobody sees under that mask. Only me, and even that's very rarely. My tears are a theater for an audience of four, and those four are the people tucked away in my thoughts.

I grab my notebook, anyway, curious as to what, exactly she's getting at. Wondering if maybe she /will/ figure me out. Or maybe she's just like Dr. Johnson. She'll never figure me out. I'm not some fucking puzzle piece that will eventually fit, I already fit. She's just completely oblivious to the fact that I already fit.

/Well, I had been at Pete's a couple night before I think. And I was just kind of staying there and we were like kind of fooling around./ I blush as I show her the text, then continue, /I blacked out and woke up and Pete was punching me. I felt betrayed and after a couple other things happened after that involving Dr. WIlliams and Jones, I felt like I couldn't trust anyone. And not to mention I was feeling really afraid that He would find me. Frank offered to help. He could kill Him and in return he wanted some freedom.

/So he stabbed me in the back./

She spends a couple minutes reading it, blinking and wincing and trying to figure me out. It's a fucking joke. There's nothing /to/ figure out. I'm me and I'm not fucking sick. I bet Frank and Ryan and Mikey are still here, they're not even in my head. Those voices? They're real and everyone else just pretends not to hear them.

Although, that may be going a little far. They're just stuck in my head.

"So you mistrusted all these people and you felt like the only way to solve it was to kill /him/."

I shrug and nod, avoiding her eyes as I take my notebook back. I guess it was like that, but it's more like I needed someone to trust and that's what Frank offered. Some stupid deal, huh?

"How did you feel when you woke up? I assume you cared about Justin."

I raise an eyebrow, unsure if I'm hearing her right. I /cared/ about him? God, no. I don't care about anybody. It's not like that. Ever. Caring means vulnerability, vulnerability means /he/ can find me... If he finds me, he'll do unspeakable things. All over again.

/I didn't, I don't care about anyone./

"But how did you feel at least? Happy? Because at the time you thought he was dead. Were you happy he was dead? Scared? Hurt? Sad? Or were you more focused on the fact that Frank had betrayed you?"

I blink, staring down at the floor and shrugging. I don't know how I felt. I don't want to talk about it anymore. It just makes it worse and it's verging on just being depressing now.. It was my fault Justin nearly died. It was my fault that Frank came out and hurt him. It was my fucking fault and I can't blame anyone beside myself. I nearly killed Justin. I nearly hurt the only person I've tolerated in that stupid foster home. 

Honestly, I just wanna die. My life has gone to ruins, would it be easier to just do /his/ work for him? Wouldn't it just be easier to tell myself that it's really just not worth it to keep going? Because it's not. I'll be stuck here forever because I'm not sick. They perform test after test and pill after pill but in the end, it doesn't fucking matter. It will never matter.

Even if I did get released, what would happen? I'd get thrown back into society? Back to Ms. Love's foster home? They would never see me the same way. I was the guy who nearly killed Justin, why would they hang out with me? I don't want a job and fuel this stupid fucking society. Because no matter how much people might love it, no matter how much people want a job and a spouse and an education and a house, it's still never going to fill whatever voids need to be filled.

"Do you wanna talk about something else?" Dr Gunn asks softly and for the first time, that soft voice seems to calm me just the slightest. Because it's here. It's now. I need to get this shithole figured out before I can think too far into my future, "Do you want to talk about the people in your head?"

I stare for a long moment longer, I can't find myself able to peel my eyes from the floor, I'm spacing off and it feels safe. It feels warm and if I pull my uniform just right around myself, I swear I feel Pete's arms.

"You're a pathetic little bitch," Frank laughs, "He doesn't love you. And you fucking know it."

"P-Please be qu-quiet, F-Frank... h-he doesn't n-n-need that right now," Mikey replies.

I nod to Dr. Gunn, pulling my notebook up and finally focusing my attention more on that than the floor. Yeah. I can talk about them.

/There's Ryan and Frank and Mikey./

I wince slightly. I don't talk about them very much and for good reason. Two of them are just upright assholes, the other is traumatized from something he doesn't like talking about. I'm still not entirely sure why they decided to take home in my head of all places.

/Frank is aggressive, and rude. He always says really rude things to me and he kind of makes me feel like shit about myself. It's kind of stupid sometimes, and ridiculous but that's just how it works. He's dangerous and a serial killer. He hurt Justin. And I think he has anger issues of some sort. I'm note entirely sure why. Or what happened to him./

I hand over the sheet, pulling my uniform closer around myself because it's kind of cold and the clothes they give us don't help all that much. I get cold a lot here, it's kind of sad. Even worse because it only reminds me of Pete. Of how he'd hold me and that day that we first kissed when we cuddled afterward.

"And Ryan?"

My eyes turn up. Ryan. Right.

/Ryan's a psychologist. I think he's studying in college but he thinks I'm crazy. He says I have all these illnesses just like everyone else but I don't believe him. He hates Pete and I but not as bad as Frank does. He just really disagrees with me and wants me to believe him. I never will, though. I'm not crazy.

/And finally, there's Mikey. I don't know much about him besides the fact that he's a pretty shy kid. He's got a stutter but he's really more of the wise type. He knows things, and he gives good advice. He likes me and I don't mind him. He's the only one I don't hate out of the three of them./

I read over the paragraphs, carefully going over each word to make sure I didn't mess up somewhere in there. I don't want to say the wrong thing and make her think that I'm vulnerable, because I'm not. I can't be. I'll never be that way again. Not after what Pete did, because I know in the end I'll always be betrayed. I'll never truly be happy. I know that people always stab each other in the back. No matter how close they may be, they'll always leave you. Always.

I hand over the notebook, deciding that it's good enough. I just want to go back to my room. I just want to sleep and forget for a while. I just want to sleep away all my problems and I want to leave this stupid place.

I hate it here. 

I really fucking do.

***

It's tan, it's so tan. Nothing but hard, dry rock under my feet and the blinding sunset in the distance. A tumbleweed. Gray. Gray. Gray. I can feel myself slipping and I know. I know this place. This desert, the tumbleweeds that fall through here. I know the way the purple and dark violet and orange paint the sky. I know the way those plastered seats sit on the wheel

It's abandoned, it's gone, it's empty. Everything is so empty and it gives me this feeling, it's so... it's so hard to place. I'm not sure where it sits but it's as mysterious as a burst of nostalgia. I know this place. I've seen this place before. I know that. I'm just... I can't place it. I can't... I can't seem to understand...

But it's sitting there, abandoned and alone and empty. A mile off, maybe ten. It's so hard to tell with this blazing sun and so... so hot... And I know I need to stay. I know... but I can't...

It needs me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated! Thank you for reading!


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is sort of crappy, my writing's been bad lately haha.

/Esclavo/

I can feel him against me, I can feel his cold skin sliding against my own, his hand crawling up my crumpled shirt to wrap around my neck. The padding of his fingers dances over the back of my neck, scrapes down my chest and all the way to my hipbones, narrow and chiseled. It's hell, each little touch of his fingers, each little brush of those claws. I can feel him covering the purple swells of blood already blotched around the skin in a tight grip and I can feel him squeeze my airways shut. Around my neck, he presses, cutting off all the flow to my lungs and pushing tears up to my eyes. 

His voice is rough, like tires on a gravel road. Like nightmares and terrors I never want to relive. His voice is the sharp stab of pain I feel every time I stand. His voice is the dark night with alleyways and knives and underwear nowhere to be found. But not in the good way. His voice is something I never want to hear again, his voice sends my muscles clenching and tensing. His voice is something that pulls me back, choking into the darkness, gasping for air but there is nothing. I cannot control anything. I'm trapped.

I shut my eyes, I pray for it to be over, I pray that it'll end soon so I can just go back and find Pete and be okay again. I just want to leave, I just want to forget... I just want it to end. I want to come back to the light again where it's all okay. I want to go back to where I know I'm safe. I need to find heaven again. 

His long hair tickling my nose, his fingers tracing my body. The free hand of his pressing down on my wrists. My hands are out of reach, my hair is in my eyes, I can't... It's too much.

I feel him pulling me free of my jeans, I feel him pulling me free of my shirt and I still can't breathe, my lungs are screaming, my neck is flexing away from his touch and my whole body is protesting. Shaking, kicking. I'm screaming, a choked back cry of pain, a choked back cry of fear. I'm crying and it's pathetic. My sight is going black and I can barely see. It's torture and I've lost control. He has all the power he wants over me, I can't do a single damn thing. 

Only then does he let go.

I inhale deep, coughing and choking and crying with pathetic little sobs. I look like a kid who just feel, writhing on the ground but I'm struggling in his arms instead, pushing and sobbing and struggling against his grip. Tears are falling, my cheeks are drenched, his hands are grabbing me, his tongue is tracing me and I'm struggling and I'm begging. It's too much. I'm out of control, he's slapping me. He's hurting me. And I can't make it stop.

I can never make it stop.

***

I open my eyes, gasping for air with my hands loose around my throat. My cheeks are drenched and sweat sticks that plain white shirt to my chest and back. I'm shaking and I can still hear him echoing through my mind. I can hear that single word, I can hear him whispering in my ear, I can feel his breaths on that skin. I can feel his hands on my stomach, I can feel him holding me down and I move to try to pull him off. 

I yank myself from his grip, fall to the floor.

I fucking scream.

"Patrick, you okay?"

I blink and it's gone, and I'm back in the bunk room. Section 18, bunk 182. I'm in on the slick linoleum and that goddamn kid is there, orange hair and icy blue eyes. I'm still shaking but /He's/ gone. It's empty, the light is on and the morning light is trickling through the small window at the end of our section.

"Do you need me to get the staff?" He asks.

I shake my head, eyes still wide in shock and fear even though it's gone. I slowly rise to my elbows, wiping the tears from my eyes and taking deep breaths. Bob steps back slightly, still watching carefully as I rise to my feet. He offers his hand but I don't dare touch it. No more touching. I can't go through that again. 

I rub my eyes and sigh as I grab my notebook and pencil. I don't think, just act. I can't think. If I think, it'll only get worse and those ugly clouds of thought will turn into storms. I can't do that, not now. Never again. I can't be that vulnerable. Never again. My feet lead out the door without a protest from Bob (thank god). They've unlocked the sections since it's 7 AM now. They lock them at 10 at night and unlock them at 7, 9 hour resting time because that's the minimum around here. Apparently they have no sympathy for those of us with insomnia. I head away from the ginger kid and instead turn to the showers. I need to get there early so nobody sees the scars. And maybe so I can get concealer back on my face before anybody notices. 

I reach the showers where there's somebody guarding the door and I stop. His name's Sam or something stupid like that. I can't remember too well, I've only been here a day for fuck's sake. And... I know it really shouldn't bother me but as soon as my eyes trace him, thoughts of what he could do to me begin to cross my mind. How he could lock us in and nobody would know if he just pinned me to the wall and forced me to spread my legs. How he could shove his hand down my pants right here and tell me to shut up like a good little whore.

I stop dead in my tracks, feel my hands begin to shake the slightest and my eyes widen. Bile is beginning to rise and in that moment nothing seems real. He's staring at me, his eyes dark and cold and it reminds me exactly of /his/. The way he would wrap those hands around my neck and tell me what a pathetic whore I was. The way he would kiss me like I was nothing more than a toy. The way he would tell me I was his, the way he would tell me I'm his little esclavo and nobody else's. I can hear him breathing down my neck. But I'm not me. It feels like a video game, a dream, and I feel myself melting into a dark abyss.

His fingers cold to the touch on my thighs, his lips on my lips, swallowing my screams. I can hear him grunting, but it's all gone now. And I'm dreaming. I blink but I don't really blink, the man is blinking. It's like I'm watching myself from the outside, like nothing is really real and I'm numb. I'm not sure what's happening but I'm terrified.

He turns, the boy I'm inside turns that is, and falls back against the wall but I can't feel it. I'm sure the boy does, though. Everything is so distant and I can't feel, I don't understand. The man comes rushing forward but it isn't real. Nothing is real and I can feel the world has slipped. The man says something, I can't be sure what it is, but the boy just pulls his knees to his chest and stares, eyes wide. I'm in my own void, I'm not really here. It's... It's like I'm in a dream and I'm not really me and this world isn't real life and it's all fake.

He's staring straight and hugging himself close, I'm watching, I can't do anything else, I don't want to do anything else. It hasn't even crossed my mind.

***

When my surroundings have finally began to feel like they're really there, I'm flexing my fingers, slowly coming to and looking around and I'm back in control. I'm not entirely sure what happened, I'm not sure if I'm even... me... What had happened, what if this body is just a shell? Everything just seemed so off and I'm not sure how to describe it other than the fact that it was like... Nothing seemed real. The world seemed like it wasn't really there, I seemed like I wasn't really there. I felt like maybe I wasn't even who I thought I was and I'm still not entirely sure how or why that happened.

Dr. Gunn is there, kneeling just as Dr. Williams had once upon a time. I'm slowly becoming familiar with my surroundings again and I'm... What happened again? How did I get here?

"Patrick, you okay?" She asks softly, "Sam told me you fell. What happened?"

It takes me a solid thirty seconds for that to process. That she's actually saying something with meaning other than just meaningless sounds. It's like when you read a book, but you're just looking at the words, not really processing what it's saying. Her words dance in my mind and I read that line over and over again until I've finally, /finally/ found the meaning. /What happened?/ What did happen? I can't remember. I can only remember... I can remember seeing him then... then this happened. 

/I don't know,/ I write.

She blinks and stands up, looking over at the man with those dark blue eyes, into those darker brown eyes. I'm not entirely sure, I'm still staring at the ground and trying to figure out what happened. What... did happen? It's all faded from my memory like it was only a dream and I'm so confused. Why don't I remember? Why am I in the hallway to the showers? 

"I think it's dissociation," She mumbles, "Patrick, do you need to shower?"

I think... I think I do, actually. I nod vigorously, feeling my back pocket for the tube of concealer and nodding again not long after. She gives a gentle smile and replies, "Alright, Sam here is gonna take you--"

"NO!" I shout before I can stop myself, back flying against the wall and eyes wide. He can't. He'll hurt me. He'll force me quiet and tug off his belt and he'll mess it all up again. I'll be vulnerable all over again. She blinks and after a long moment of silence, she nods, "You want me to come?"

I nod softly, hugging my notebook to my chest and staring at the floor again. It feels like everything inside myself is just so tangled up and my emotions are getting the best of me. It shouldn't be this way, I can't let it be this way. I've always been good with controlling my feelings, making myself generally numb or aggressive and now, everything keeps taking hold of me and I can't control myself anymore. Dr. Johnson always said keeping my emotions in won't help a single damn thing but I don't care, I need to. I can't let them know I'm this vulnerable...

"Alright, can I help you up? Or can you do it by yourself?" Dr. Gunn asks gently.

I blink and after a long moment where I just kinda stare and wait for it to process, and after that moment passes, I slowly nod and shakily rise to my feet, holding onto the wall for support. She watches carefully, holding out her hand in case I need it, but I don't take it. I just brace myself against the wall until the dizziness begins to wear off and the shakiness begins to leave. I exhale deep from my chest, eyes shut and tears lacing my eyes. They're watching me and I feel vulnerable.

I shield myself as I continue down the hall, one fist on my left and my other palm against the wall as I slowly make my way down to the end of the hall and open the shower door.

"Sam, wait out here, alright? Don't let anyone in," She says softly, then follows me inside where I drop off my notebook and pencil and order her to turn around. Dr. Gunn does it without hesitation, angled toward the wall but she still has me in her peripheral vision, dancing in a blur of pale skin and scars. I don't want her to see it. I don't want anyone to see it.

I tug off my pants and underwear first, avoiding the gaze of my body when I continue with my shirt and start the shower, lowering my eyes under the sharp spray of cold water. It's soaking my head to my forehead, down to my eyes. It continues, trickling down the scars of my stomach, and onward to my thighs and calves. The water soaks my skin clean, pulls out all the dirty and sweat and lust of Vic, tearing me from his dark eyes and pulling me back to the ground where his hands can't reach and I'm safe.

It doesn't take long for me to shower, pulling a bar of soap across my skin and eventually I feel clean enough to stop it. I dry off quickly, my legs stronger, my fingers stiff and my thoughts clear. It's like it pulled me from whatever trance the dissociation put me in and now, I'm finally beginning to fall back to earth. I'm still not entirely sure what happened, I can barely remember, it's like when you stare off into distance and when you finally snap out of it, you can't remember a single thought that was going through your mind. I guess.. I guess I just couldn't snap out of it like I should have.

I hear Dr. Gunn and Sam whispering something to each other, then she pulls away and she calls to me, "Would it be okay if Travis came in?"

I quickly tug on a shirt and my boxers and sign her a thumb's up where I know she can see it. I don't want to see the scars myself, I don't want anyone to. They would question, they would rumor. That's what people do, that's what people have always done and it's sick. It makes me sick just thinking about it. 

I hear the door opening as I shield my face and attempt to get my pants on. White pants, white shirt, while underwear. It's horrible. But I've begun to grow used to it. The white walls and the white doors. I'm not entirely sure why other than to drive people more insane than they already are but I don't question it. It is what it is. But anyways, this boy comes in. I remember him from the group yesterday with those dark, aggressive eyes and his fingers are in a fist. I straighten up slightly because he's intimidating, but that doesn't mean I'm vulnerable.

He tugs off his shirt and I just continue to cover my face because I still hate the reminder of it. I hate how it's engraved in my skin and I have to cover it up. I hate how it looks, I hate how when I touch it, I swear I can feel Jack's blade. I hate it, I wish it'd just go away and I wish it'd just heal but I know it'll take a long time, if ever.

I grab my concealer and head to the mirror, making sure nobody can see while I slather it over the cut, desperate to just hide it. I see the scar in my brow, I see the way the makeup cakes against my skin and I can't help but feel disgusted. Because no matter how hard I try, I'll never truly cover up everything that happened. I'll never truly forget and if I were alone, I know I'd try because I'm just so... desperate. And ask why the hell it had to be me of all people. And I'd ask myself if I'll ever be as okay as I was before.

My life has officially gone to waste, I'm tainted, I'm shattered. And those cracks will never not show. Because you know you only have two options after you break glass. Try to fix it with cheap superglue and duct tape, or just throw it away. Those sharp edges are dangerous. I could hurt people... /Frank/ could hurt people.

The concealer goes on fast, I'm careful not to let Trav or Dr. Gunn see as I apply it with quick, smooth strokes and as soon as I finish, I head back to the bench to grab my notebook. Travie comes up beside me, grabbing his own clothes with his head down and his fingers nimble. He's just grabbing his things and I know I told myself I'm not vulnerable, I am. I can' help but feel like he sees right through me. Like he knows every one of my secrets. His lips part, I can see it out of the corner of my eye as his voice finally rises from his throat to his lips.

"You look better without the makeup," He says, "It'll help you survive longer."

I blink, confusion etched through my face as he pulls on a shirt and gives me one last look. Our eyes meet, his are a dark brown, but there's the slightest touch of warmth behind them. Just like that, though, he's gone, heading through the door with his hands at his sides and his eyes still just as dark as they were when he entered.

It's not long before I'm following him out, head down and fingers tapping nervously against the notebook in my hand. The black cover drags at my thigh, the spine bumping my hip. I focus on that, on that feeling alone, to ground me and make me feel like I'm here. Like this is now and here and nobody else can take that away from me besides myself or... or /Him/. I'm not going to go through that again. The nightmares, the flashbacks. It's too much. I can't be vulnerable like that again. I need to be here. Now. Where Dr. Gunn leads me through the halls, away from the showers, and drops me off in the cafeteria.

The first table I see as Dr. Gunn walks away is occupied by Ed, Bob, Billie Joe, Tre, and Mike. Ed's picking at his skin like he always does while Billie Joe leans back against his chair, smiling lazily to Ed, his two fuckbuddies exchanging glances while Ed just continues to talk, picking at that same place in his cheek. I think that's part of his whole disorder, but I'm not sure what about it makes him do it. Maybe emotional stress or something. It makes me kinda sad that he has to go through that because he really is a nice kid. 

I look around and when I realize there aren't any empty seats, I sigh to myself and head over to them, my head lowered. I throw my notebook on the table and in a few quick movements, I've written out in small letters: /Can I sit here?/

Bob nods as soon as he's read it with an inviting smile. I'm not sure what exactly comes across me, if he reminds me of Justin or if it's just the way he invites me in, but I find myself smiling back with a weaker arch. I gesture to the breakfast line, then tap my book and he immediately understands, replying with a, "Yeah, sure, I'll watch your stuff."

I smile again, then pull away and head to the front of the room. They're serving cereal, though, and that's about it and it looks disgusting. But I take it anyway because I know I should. I need to eat at some point, I'm not gonna be like that one kid with anorexia. I feel kinda bad for him. I feel kinda bad for everyone here. Their lives must be pretty much a shithole right now. Just like mine.

"You're fat," Frank mumbles in my ear, "You don't need it."

I blink, and stare at the cereal for a moment. Fat? Hell, I'm not fat, what the fuck is Frank talking about? 

"I'm talking about all that fucking chub that you gained after you get back from Vic you piece of shit," Frank growls, "Eat it if you really wanna become as greedy as you've always been afraid of being. Just like everyone else."

I stare at it for a moment longer. I'm not fat. I actually kind of like how I look right now. Especially since the drughouse. So, I continue to walk, past a trash can, but I don't throw it away. I'm not greedy. I get what everyone else in this stupid place gets, right? I blink myself from those thoughts and take my seat back from Bob where they're talking about the kids around this shitshow. Dallon, Spencer, Mark, Jon. Travie.

"I heard that he's schizophrenic," Billie says with a smirk, "Hears his boyfriend in his head, he's been here for years, that one. 'Parently his boyfriend killed himself because he couldn't find a reason to live so he came to be super suicidal. Says he's got no point without the other kid."

"He's also the guy that freaks out whenever someone mentions his name," Tre says, but he turns to me not long after and frowns, "Hey, didn't you get here like... yesterday or somethin'?"

"Day before yesterday," Bob butts, "He's Patrick."

"Kid, you picked a real looker," Mike chuckles. I wince slightly, because it's something /he/ would say. I try not to let it bother me too much, though. This isn't /him/. This is some stupid stoner who doesn't know shit about me or half the shit I've been through.

"Shut up," Bob growls with a note of aggressiveness, "Patrick, this is Billie, Tre, and Mike." 

Billie gives me a small smile, holding out his hand but I immediately look away, grabbing my notebook instead and writing: /I don't do touching./ I don't. I can't do it.

"Hey, no problem, Dude," Ed shrugs when I turn it, "We've all got issues, man. Just hope to god we won't have to stay long. I've got excoriation. Tre's got OCD, like severe OCD, Billie's got... what is it? Fetishism?"

"Exhibitionism," Billie replies with a roll of his eyes, "I've been taken to jail three times now because of it. And Mike there? He's got... What was it? Ana?"

"Yeah," Mike replies, shying away just the slightest, and avoiding my gaze. Anorexia Nervosa, Exhibitionism Disorder, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Nice.

"Edward." I look up to see some girl with a cup of pills in her hand and a small smile on that bright face. Dark hair and dark eyes and bright red lipstick. She looks like some badass rocker, /really/ out of place for a mental institute. Ed looks up and sighs, pulling his fingernails from his face and taking the two cups from her. He swallows down the pills, washes them with the water, then opens his mouth to show that he didn't fake it. She gives another small smile and nods, "Thanks, I think Dr. Yao wants an appointment with you at 2 today, okay?"

Ed nods, "Yeah, okay."

With a small pat to his back, she turns and leaves, her white uniform swaying slightly and a hint of pride in her features. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would be proud to work in a mental institution with a bunch of loonies. If anything, it's one of the most shameful jobs you could get. It makes me kind of wince at how disappointed she was. Although... that's probably just me.

"So, Trick, what's up with you?" Tre asks, turning my attention from where she's walking away, "Any reason why you're here? Care to share?"

I lower my eyes as I grab my notebook and reply: /I don't like to talk about it. I don't belong here either./ I turn it so they can see and continue to keep my head down. Because I'm not talking about it. Because I can't even think about it and no matter how many flashbacks I have, I'll never be able to bring myself to say it aloud. Never again. Not since... Dr. Williams... 

/"What's gotten into you lately? Is there any reason as to why you've become so snappy?"

/"I've always been this snappy and sarcastic. Why won't you realize that? Even before I was taken away to the drughouse, even before I was beaten and raped and... and hurt I was a sarcastic little bitch. I haven't changed at all. I don't have DID or Schizophrenia or whatever else you think I have. I don't have anything. I'm just /me/ okay? I don't hear voices in my head, I don't black out. I'm not some /loony/ you can just 'diagnose' and analyze to death. I'm a normal fucking person and I just need people to understand that!"/

"Patrick, Mate, you okay?" Ed asks softly.

I blink, look up at him. Everyone is staring at me. I must have blanked out.

/I need to go./

And just like that I take my notebook and pencil and head to the nearest bathroom, wiping imaginary tears from my eyes. It's nothing, it's okay. I'm okay.

It's all fine, I think to myself as I retch over the toilet. I'm fine.

***

\---Ryan---

My eyes widen and blink as I sit up from where I'm lying back against cool rough bark. The park? No, this isn't it. I look around a little more, then down at my clothing and it kind of hits. Mental institution. Pure white. This isn't something Patrick would have on a normal every day basis and judging by the young adults around me, I can tell this isn't just a normal place. My fingers are digging into grass, my eyes are wide. Patrick isn't home anymore. This isn't what I thought it would be. We're finally where I know where he would end up eventually.

He's finally getting help.

"Trick, man, you okay?" This ginger kid with bright blue eyes and dark black glasses frowns at me. He's got this round face and frame, wearing the same wrinkled white uniform and one of his cheeks is a mixture of white scratch marks and cracked skin. Excoriation disorder. I learned about that in psychology.

Beside him is this other guy with dark black layered hair which looks like it would be gelled up if they allowed that kind of stuff at mental institutions. His eyes are a light green in the sunlight that shines in from the window above us.

And finally there's this other guy with shorter, messy dirty blond hair pulled back and decorated with black roots. He's got a couple dark blue eyes with ebony pupils and is staring at me like I just screamed.

"I..." My voice cracks and I wince slightly, "I'm not Patrick."

"What?" The ginger boy frowns.

"Multiple personality disorder," The black haired boy smiles. He's smart, "I knew there was something wrong with this kid. You wanna see Doctor Gunn?"

I blink and look around, frowning slightly, "I... yeah. Yeah, that'd be good, who are you again?"

"I'm Billie Joe, that's Mike, that's Bob."

"Hey!" The ginger snaps, "I look nothing like Bob!"

"Keep believing, Ed," Billie chuckles, standing up and watching me follow soon after, "So who are you, huh?"

"Ryan," I mumble, "Ryan Ross, and I'm a student in psychology in college."

"Ahh, college kid, huh? And in psychology? Why'd you decide to do it? And d'you think you could figure out my friends and I? There's three of us," Billie teases at it. I stare for a moment, I just changed into a completely different personality and he's fucking /joking/? It's kind of strange that he'd take something that dark so lightly. I could see that as some kind of coping mechanism for something, so maybe he really is fucked up. I mean... I guess it would be worth a shot. As for why I joined... it's not like it matters who I tell, right? "I did it because I wanted to figure out what the hell turned me gay, and yeah. Sure. Go ahead, then."

Billie smiles slightly as we turn a corner and he shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks cocky, almost in a smartass way, like he knows I can't get this. That kind of annoys me if I'm honest. "Well, there's me. I have OCD, then Tre with Exhibitionism, and Mike with Anorexia and PTSD. We've known each other since before this stupid place, we're all the same age, is that enough for you?"

I sigh and squint as we continue through the halls, "Well, it's obviously a folie a trois of some sort if your illness is connected somehow. Exhibitionism is spouted from some sort of sexual child abuse, PTSD is just from some sort of traumatic event in general, Anorexia can come from a variety of sources, in this case I'm guessing it's a feeling of dirtiness and needing to look better, or to feel better about yourself, and OCD is either from environmental growth or genetics, and can come from an intense fear or a superstition of some sort.

"If the three of you are brothers, which is highly possible because at least two of you have dark hair and light eyes, I'd say it's from a parental figure of some sort. Maybe a teacher, or just your parents, but then again that also depends on whether it's folie simultanée or folie imposée. In other words did you all experience the same trauma or did one of you experience the trauma then impose it on the other two?" I wince as I realize just how much of a know-it-all I sound like. Maybe I'm just as bad as he is.

I turn my head to look to the dark haired boy beside me but he looks kind of stumped. I've hit a soft spot. Hard.

I sigh, "And you're also hiding behind your feelings with teasing and jokes, Billie. You keep doing that and you'll get hurt."

He swallows, doesn't reply doesn't move his head from the ground. Nothing. He just keeps walking me down the hall, his dark locks pointed in dozens of directions. He honestly looks broken, and it hurts. It really does. Is this what Patrick's like when I don't see him? Is this how it's like when he's completely alone and not even the voices bother him? Is he really this broken? Or is he stronger? Those are the parts of him I see very rarely and I wish I could see more often but I never do. I never really see how much it effects him.

Billie eventually picks up his head, though, looks straight ahead and with a weak smile he says, "You're damn good at that, Ross. I bet you'll be one of the best therapists out there, y'know?"

I shrug, blushing slightly with a bright pink tint in my flesh, "I only took the class to figure out what the hell was wrong with me and why in hell I would ever fall in love with a man but it's not really paid off, I guess. And I am only a part of his imagination or... a coping mechanism. I'm not even a real person. I'm just a way for him to get over the stress of everything that's happened."

"Do you know what happened?" Billie asks, stopping right outside the door and looking across at me.

"Yeah, but it's not something he likes talking about. I don't blame him, either. It was rough," I take a breath, "Y'know?"

"Yeah," He looks up at me and swallows, "Just don't become one of those therapists who doesn't even seem to care, okay? There are too many of those out there. I don't care if you're just a coping mechanism, you're a damn good coping mechanism and I'm sure you could become a damn good therapist. Just feel a little sympathy every once in a while, yeah? That you're not just doing it for the money?"

I nod, "Yeah, I understand."

"Can I... can I hug you?" Billie asks, frowning the slightest, "Or would that be too much?"

I sigh and after a moment, open my arms with a stiff nod, looking across the hall to see a couple girls walking to some kind of therapy room and a security guard completely passing by us. Billie wraps me up tight embrace and doesn't let go, just inhales deep, then exhales. He smells like tears, and feels like a cracked piece of glass, fingernails digging into my shoulders and cutting me open like shards of a mirror. I can feel his chest rise as he takes in my smell - /Patrick's/ smell. Of sweat and tears and hate and hurt. 

"Y'know," He whispers, "There isn't anything wrong with being gay, okay? It's not... it's not some kind of psychological case that can be fixed. It's just... it's just what it is, y'know? There's nothing wrong with it, okay?"

I take a breath and after a long time of letting that sink in, I nod. I can't help but tuck my face in his neck and squeeze my eyes shut because for the first time in forever, it feels like someone actually cares. And those words, they sink in under my skin and I let myself breath those words right back out. While I might never actually be completely okay with... with who I am... maybe it really is okay... maybe it's not something that can be treated... maybe it really just is what it is...

Maybe...

\---Patrick---

I feel myself falling back, feel the floor collide with my side even before I can stop myself. I feel myself fall and I feel everything slip out from under me and I'm on the floor. I can't remember... I can't...

I inhale deep, taking in my surroundings. Dr. Lynn's office. Billie watching me with a cautious look, my hands shaking and Mark walking down the hall past us. I can hear the soft squeaking of boots, the tapping of shoes on a linoleum floor. /Tap, tap, tap.../ Then the smell of the cafeteria, and the feeling of the newly forming bruise on my side from the fall. The thing that really surprises me , though, is that he looks completely serious. More serious than I've seen him in a long, long time.

"Ryan, you okay, dude?" He asks, darting forward to help me up but I kick at him before I can think twice, eyes wide and lungs inhaling fast, "Don't touch me."

Billie blinks and it kind of clicks for him. I'm not entirely sure what clicks but something clicks and he slowly backs away, an extremely false smile crossing his lips, "Right. Patrick. You decided to talk finally?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples softly, then slowly standing. I don't reply, only shrug. That was out of instinct. I'm still not entirely sure who to trust but Billie and Bob and Ed seem okay so far. Maybe Dr. Gunn if I decide so but that's it and I'm not talking until I really do trust them. I just want to keep to myself and... where's my notebook?

I blink, looking around, then up at Billie and do a gesture of a pencil on paper. He gets it almost immediately, "Outside, do you... do you need to see Dr. Gunn? Or are you okay?"

I shake my head, passing by Billie toward the cafeteria which connects to the small place outside with a few trees and some dried grass. It's a gross kind of place.

Then again, so is this entire institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, don't forget to let a comment or kudos!


	3. -Father-

\--Mikey--

/"Don't tell anyone at all about this, Mikey. It's... it's our little secret, yeah?"

/"W-what do you mean...?"

/"Shh..."/

/My eyes are wide, eyebrows furrowed as he presses me back, pins me down. I'm trapped and my nerves are beginning to heighten and my mind is going into a panic as his fingers fall down my chest. Down. Down. Down. His fingers turn to claws and his breaths turn to ice.

/"D-Daddy?" I choke, pulling away, "D-Daddy what are you doing?"

/"Shh," He breathes down my neck, "Shh, it's okay."

/I feel his hand right over my crotch, massaging the material of my jeans. Those six year old eyes open wide, that six year old mouth cries out, but it's swallowed down by his lips. I try to run. I really do. But I can't get away.

/He finishes with messy hands and a bottle of lube messily thrown on the floor. My entire body hurting and it's my fault. It's all my fucking fault./

***

/The divorce papers are filed, I know it was my fault. They still don't know. Gerard stays in his room, doesn't come out, doesn't ever talk. It's okay, though. Honestly, neither do I. 

/The last screaming match between them was a month ago. The last time Mama saw Daddy was three weeks ago. The last time... the last time he did it was a week ago... I feel filthy. I feel so dirty. I feel like I can't get clean. But I feel like I deserve it. So I don't shower. I let myself soak in the filth, I let myself feel dirty and ugly and disgusting. I feel his hands on me. I feel... I feel horrible...

/Mama doesn't notice. Nobody does. Nobody notices how I flinch when they touch me, nobody notices me looking behind my back. Nobody notices how I stay in my room. Honestly, I just wanted to forget. I wanted somebody to talk to. 

/But like he said, I can't tell anybody. He'll kill me.

/I'm at home, Gerard out with his boyfriend, Frank and everything is just going wrong. I'm so tired and dirty and just all around disgusting. His fingers are still gripping my hips, his own snapping against mine and I'm just laying there. Taking it.

/It's not like it matters. I deserve it. Even my six year old mind can wrap around that as I turn on my side and begin crying into my pillow.

/I cry myself to sleep that night. Unable to do anything else. Unable to want to do anything else.

/I deserve it./

***

/I wake up to the feeling of someone shaking me awake. Warm hands and cold breaths. I'm disoriented. I feel so afraid because Daddy's back. I don't like Daddy anymore... The way he watches me like prey. The way he leans down and makes sure I won't tell anyone because he'll kill me if I do. Every hushed breath and every stolen kiss...

/My eyes flash open and a startled yelp releases into the air as I turn. Gerard. I'm... okay.../

/"Mikey, hey, are you okay?"

/I was having a nightmare... he must have heard. I wonder if he knows. If he knows how Daddy hurts me... how he touches me... I squeeze my eyes shut and after a long moment, I shake my head and bury my face in his chest, sobbing slightly.

/"Mikey?"

/"H-He hurt me..." I whisper, "I don't want him to hurt me again. Don't let it happen again. Gee. Please."

/I can feel him inhale sharply, afraid of something. I'm not sure what. I don't understand why he seems so shocked. Couldn't he tell? Or... maybe he really didn't...

/"Who hurt you, Mikes? I'll fucking kill them, you hear?"

/"H-He said he'd h-hurt me if I-I tell anybody..."

/Gerard pulls me closer, hushing me gently and rocking me, back and forth so soft and so slow. I feel my hands slowly begin to loosen their grip and relax until my eyes are droopy again and I just let him rock me back and forth softly.

/"He won't ever touch you again, okay? Never ever again. We're gonna get this fixed, okay?"

/"O-Okay... Promise?"

/"I promise, Mikes."/

***

/About a week passes before Gerard and I talk about it again. Before Gerard presses any further. It's quiet, Gerard's taking a shower upstairs and Mama's out buying groceries. She's done that a lot since Daddy left.

/The front door opens and, honestly, I don't care who it is. It's probably Frank or Ray. Frank's probably gonna try to see Gee. Ray would hang out with be because we're best friends. I've wanted to tell him about what Daddy did but I always get too nervous and I can't.

/"Gerard?"

/That's Frank. I don't look up, just keep playing with my legos. They've helped me take my mind off of Daddy. Off of what happened...

/I hear his footsteps coming closer but I still don't look up. If I don't, maybe he'll go away. Maybe he won't bother me. Maybe. They comes closer and closer, creaking down the hall and getting louder and louder. I feel tension rising through my chest, up to my quickly tearing eyes. M-Maybe he won't hurt me like Daddy did if I just stay still. M-Maybe -

/The door opens and everything happens in slow motion. From Frank tripping over the lego, to my shrill scream as he comes toppling down on top of me and then to the state of shock that washes over me not long after.

/And then to the red hair that appears not long after I'm pinned down to the floor.

/"Frank?"

/The dark haired boy spins around with wide eyes, "G-Gee?"

/Gerard looks furious, disgusted. He looks like he could burst and at the same time, there's a hint of weakness, a hint of disbelief somewhere in the darkness of his eyes. It hurts like salt on an already open wound.

/"Frank you... I can't fucking believe you, you sick fuck!" Gerard yells, "I fucking trusted you!"

/"It's not what it looks like, Gee, I swear, I -"

/I'm shutting them out not long after, though. Shaking and crying on the floor because I can feel Daddy again. I can feel him pinning me down just like Frank did. I can... I can feel it all.../

I choke, eyes wide as I jolt out of bed, tears in my eyes and hands shaking. Sweat sticks my shirt slick to my skin and my entire core trembles as I try to recover. From /his/ touch. From the way he had stripped me raw to my core. I was open, wide open for the world to see every pure thought, every pure memory of him quickly be tainted by one simple night. He had torn everything I had ever loved from me, he had separated me from my high self-esteem, from my dignity, from my pride, from everything I ever had and he replaced it with filth. With his touch and his lips and everything he had given me that night.

I've tried so hard to stitch myself back together with frayed string and loose knots. With shaking hands and blurred vision. I've tried so hard. So, so hard.

I've never been skilled with strings and needles, though.

I feel my eyes lower, but I don't really see them lower as I sit there. It's still dark throughout the room, and the lights are all out. I can make out the clock on the wall reading 2 AM and I can hear the soft ticking, beating away.

One, two, three, four, five, six, one, two, three, four, five, six... It's like a slow song. The ones you'd hear with strong basslines and low self-esteem. With ships rocking away on the ocean waves and seagulls pulling against the rushing wind. It's red and brown and yellow. 

I wince the slightest, pulling myself away from that and instead just tucking myself back under the covers and staring at the wall with tears gathered at my eyes.

Did I deserve it? Did I deserve what he did? How he treated me? I want to say it's meaningless. I want to say it doesn't matter and I'll recover and it'll be okay and it'll all be in the past but I still wonder. If I did deserve what he did. If I should have told Gerard. If I should have stopped them...

I don't know what happened to Frank or Gerard after that. I was lost, I was sent away when I started talking about the voices that whispered to me in my sleep. I was sent to a place where nobody would talk to me again and maybe I'd be fixed. Maybe...

***

"Patrick, wake up. Breakfast is almost done!"

I hear the voice but I don't recognize it. I don't want to wake up. I just want to find Gerard and know it's okay and know that no matter what happens, I'll be okay. I'm not Patrick. I'm not whoever they think I am. I'm Mikey... that's it...

"Patrick, man."

They're coming closer. They're gonna hurt me. They're gonna use me. Just like he did. Just like him.

"You okay?"

I turn, readying my shaking fists and staring with wide, afraid eyes, "G-Get a-away from m-m-me!"

The ginger boy raises his eyebrows in reply and after a long moment, he nods softly and steps back the slightest, "You okay?"

I have tears in my eyes as I shake my head and stare at him, folding my hands at my knees. Those memories are still replaying through my head, Dad's fingers around my throat, Dad's hand on my hip. Everything. And it hurts, so fucking bad.

"F-Fine," I choke out, standing and lowering my eyes, "Wh-Where am I again?"

I have no idea why it didn't hit me at 2AM, but it's hitting me now. I have no idea where the fuck I am, or how I got here or anything. I'm so confused and lost and... and I just need to find Gerard... I miss Gerard...

"The hospital..." The other guy replies with a concerned look, "Why?"

"It's," I wince, "I-I don't kn-know where I a-am,"

"You..." He frowns but after a long moment, a look of realization crosses his face, "I should've known from the fact you were talking, what's your name?"

"M-Mikey Way," I reply quietly, lowering my eyes and following him through the wall and onto the cafeteria, "D-Do you know where m-my brother is?" 

The other boy frowns, turning and watching me as we continue on, "No, I don't. Do you know what his name is?"

I lower my eyes again and shrug, "Gerard, but he probably wouldn't be here anyways. He's not weird like me..." 

He could never be. I'm a freak, I'm crazy. Maybe I really do deserve to die. Because the voices in my head, they've been there a while now. And the dirt on my skin, I've been scrubbing for a while now. I'm 16. It's been 10 years. I still don't quite understand why it still hurts me as much as it does...

"I don't think I know him... but you could ask Dr. Gunn, I'm sure she could help," The boy suggests, "Hey, I'm Bob by the way."

I blink and after a moment, I smile slightly and nod, "N-Nice you meet you."

He grins right back as we turn down the hall to reveal the large room. White walls and tan tables and a loud buzz of voices echoing throughout the large room. I blink and after a moment, cling to Bob's hand, his grip hard and unsteady.

"You okay?" Bob asks, a softer melody to his voice, almost like a drop of sympathy. I've heard it a thousand times over, though. From Gerard, from Mama, from everyone. I still wonder if Dad got caught. I still wonder...

"Y-yeah," I reply after a moment, "Yeah, I'm f-fine. J-Just a little overw-whelming."

The ginger nods with understanding and continues, leading me through the crowd to the table closest to the door where another ginger, a couple dirty blonds, and a raven-haired guy sits, talking and laughing amongst each other. The ginger's picking at loose skin on his hand but quickly getting stopped by one of the blondes while the other two just talk amongst each other. There's also a fourth man, with a clefted chin and short brown hair pressing into the raven-haired boy's side. 

"Guys," Bob calls to them, "We have a new arrival."

I blink, pressing myself farther into Bob's side as he stands in front of the table. The raven haired boy smiles at me with a hungry, almost sly look in his eye, "Who's this, then?"

I blush, taking a seat beside Bob and hiding my face as well as I can, "I-I'm M-Mikey..."

"So there's a Patrick, a Ryan, and a Mikey. You got any other sides, kid?" The lankier blond asks. He looks frighteningly small. Frighteningly fragile. But he's got just as much wit to him as the raven haired kid.

"I-I don't h-have a p-p-personality disorder," I mumble, avoiding their eyes, "I-I'm not crazy."

"Right," Bob coughs, "Mikey, this is Billie, Tre, Mike, Ed, and Mark. Mikey, you don't have to say what you're here for if you don't want to. But they tend to brag about it a - "

"You wanna see my cock?" Billie grins cheekily, thumbing at the waistband of his jeans.

My eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights because I really was /not/ expecting that. My cheeks flush a bright red and I look away uncomfortably, "I-I don't..."

"Billie, don't," Ed warns, frowning, "You've gone a week. You're doing good."

Billie sneers, "Okay, okay, sheesh. I'll stop if you do the same."

Ed sighs, rolling his eyes and going back to picking at his skin which, again, is stopped by Tre's hand.

I blink because this table is a mess. From Billie's snarky comments about sex to Ed's constant picking and Bob's motherliness. But somehow they just /work/. It's weird, strange. It's something I don't see often, but it's interesting. It really is.

"So, Mikes, why /are/ you here, then. If you wanna talk about it," Ed asks gently. His icy eyes calm me a little, because he's just a little more sane than everyone else at the table and... yeah. He really is nice.

"I-I don't kn-kn-know," I mumble, "J-Just b-bad childhood I g-guess." 

Ed flashes me a sympathetic smile, then turns to Billie and after a short moment, mumbles something into his ear. I eventually look away as well, turning my gaze toward the rest of the cafeteria. I wonder if Gerard misses me, if he knows where I am. Or if /he/ misses me. If /he/ knows where I am. I hope to god he doesn't. He can't. I need to be safe from /him/.

"Mikey."

I jump when I hear her behind me, eyes wide and fingers shaking. When I turn, I see her. A head of bright white hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and a nametag pierced to her coat. /Dr. Gunn./ She's beautiful, honestly. But I haven't thought about that stuff in a long time, honestly. If I do, I end up thinking of /him/ and I can't.

I watch her for a moment, eyes wide and fingers gripping the table because I know what these people do, honestly. I know how they dissect us like pigs and diagnose us. But I need to prove to her I'm not insane. Because I'm not. Honest. I'm perfectly sane. Perfectly normal. Why can't they see?

"Y-yeah?" I reply, hiding myself away slightly. I feel exposed, I feel like she can read me like a book. And she has me figured out, she'll throw those pills in my face at any time. I know she will.

She eyes the table for a moment before looking back to me, "Could you come with me for a bit? You can get breakfast afterwards if you'd like."

I look away, back to the table with a small look, then I nod, trying to make myself as small as possible as I stand and lower my head. She flashes a bright smile and after a barely audible, "Good luck," from Billie, we're leaving. I follow her through the cafeteria and on past the white halls where I'm sure there'll be a chair and a desk and a couch and she'll examine me until she knows every last detail of my life and nothing is kept a secret.

I hate therapists. They always scare me.

She opens a door with her name to the side on the wall, and sure enough, as I enter, she's got a desk, a chair,and a couch. Not to mention a few bookshelves about psychology and therapy. Books on ADHD and anxiety and PTSD and depression and bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I don't have any of them. I'm sane. And healthy. I know I am.

"Mikey? That /is/ your name, right?" She asks, shutting the door and taking a seat at her desk. She's shuffling through her files not long after, probably trying to find mine. I don't even know this girl, though. I just wanna go home...

"Y-yeah," I mumble, pulling my knees to my chest and looking away. She hums, and after a moment, she nods and looks back up at me.

"So, Mikey," She stands and takes a seat at the couch adjacent to mine before leaning back and smiling at me, "I guess we should start at the beginning, huh? Do you know why you're here?"

I pull my knees to my chest and shrug. I do know. I just don't want to say it. Shouldn't she know this stuff? She's the one with the file. She's the one who knows everything about me. Things that even /I/ barely know.

"Because e-everyone said I'm c-crazy," I reply simply. It's true. After Gerard caught Frank and I in my room... and after I started telling them about the voices that came just a few days later...

She nods, jotting that down in her notebook and looking back up to me, "Who's everyone?"

"M-my brother, G-Gerard. Mama, Ray... P-p-probably Frank, t-too..." I lower my eyes, "I'm not c-crazy, th-though. I-I'm s-sane and they j-just don't s-see it. Th-the v-voices are alm-most gone a-and I h-haven't disassociated i-in a while... I-I-I just wanna g-go home."

She gibes me a sympathetic look and after a moment, nods and writes something else down in her notebook, "Alright, and... could you tell me why you have these... ehm... struggles?"

I wince, "I-I don't l-like talking ab-b-bout it."

"Mikey..." She licks her lips, "You know I can't help you until you tell me..."

I shake my head, pulling my knees to my chest. I'm visibly shaking by now. I don't want to tell her. I don't know her. I can't just give it away, I couldn't give it away to the last doctor either... I can't talk about what happened. I can never talk about what happened. Because they'll know, and they'll use it against me. Call me weak. Boys can't be... they can't be hurt like that... can they...?

"I c-can't, I-I'm so sorry," I reply, hiding myself away impossibly more and shaking, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

She doesn't say a word, just watches me like she doesn't even fucking care. I wouldn't be surprised. It seems like nobody really listens to me anymore. Only when I've made a breakthrough. Only when Gerard's here... But I know he's not coming back. Not for a long time. No matter how much I want him here.

She watches me for a moment and after a long while, she just purses her lips and jots something down again, "Alright, you don't have to. Can you tell me why you're here?"

I blink and after a moment, I shake my head, "P-Probably cause D-Dr. Martinez wanted me t-t-to come here."

"Was she your last counselor?"

"Y-Yeah."

I lower my eyes away from her and pull my knees to my chest, "Sh-She said I'm c-crazy and I c-can't go home 'til I-I'm cured. I-I'm not c-crazy though."

"Of course you aren't," Dr. Gunn frowns softly, "You just have some barriers and we'll get them fixed and we can figure something out, alright?"

"W-will I get to see G-Gerard?" I raise my eyebrows. She looks conflicted at that suggestion and after a moment, she replies, "We'll see what we can do."

"O-okay." I look away, my thoughts beginning to drift because I really want to know. When?   
Where? How? I want to see him again, I'm desperate because he's the only one I know. The only one I want to know. I miss him. I really do.

"So, um, Mikey. Can I ask if you know a Patrick Stump?" 

I blink, and after a long moment, I nod, "Y-Yeah, I th-think I know him..."

"Who is he, then?"

"H-He's one of the p-p-people in my head, he talked t-to me about a m-man named P-P-Pete."

"Have you met Pete before?"

"Y-Yeah, we m-met at a p-park a few days ago. I-I think he kn-knows my brother but I-I'm not sure," I lower my head, "I-I don't know th-though. I'm not sure about a lot o-of stuff a-anymore."

"What do you mean by other stuff?" Dr. Gunn questions.

I frown, "J-Just... where am I? Wh-Who are you? I-I've never s-seen you before a-and I can't r-remember... I can't r-remember being transferred h-here and wh-wh-where is Gee? W-Why don't you know h-him or any of wh-what happened?"

Dr. Gunn gives a sympathetic look, then turns back to her notes and jots something down, probably about memory loss. I'm not sure. Maybe it's about Pete. I don't know. I'm afraid, if I'm honest, I don't know her. I don't know how I got here. I just want Gerard and I want to cuddle into his side and know that it's alright for once even if it may never be alright. I just need his fingers running through my hair and his voice singing me to sleep and I want to know where he is. I want Mama and I want Frank back. I want Ray back and I want things to be the way they were before any of this happened. I just want to feel okay again. Is that too much to ask?

"I may have to cut this a little bit short Mikey," She says softly, pressing her notepad to her desk, "We have a new arrival today and I need to meet with him before anything else happens, alright?"

"Oh, o-okay," I rub my arms softly just before standing up, "C-Can you l-look into wh-where Gerard is?"

"Of course, Honey," Dr. Gunn replies gently as she leads me out the door, "No need to worry about a thing, alright?"

"O-Okay," I leave the room and just like that, the door shuts followed by my vision going completely black.

\---Patrick---

I blink, eyes adjusting to the lights above me and my fingers twitching at my sides. I'm here in front of Dr. Gunn's door, my body is shaking, and I don't know how I got here. I can feel the flickering bulbs casting heavy light on my shoulders and my eyes blinking away the unfamiliarity. I don't think too hard about it, if I don't think about it, it never happened.

"You okay, kid?"

My eyes lift in a snap to see that man there, the one who doesn't talk, the one with the schizophrenia and the thoughts of his suicidal boyfriend. His dead boyfriend. I don't say a word to him, if I do, I'll surely break. I haven't spoken yet and I don't plan to speak again. Not to Travis, not to Billie or Ed or Bob. I just need to get away from here. I trust the people back in the lunch room. I trust that they won't hurt me.

I shake my head and turn, gripping the pockets of my jeans and hunching my shoulders as I continue down the hall but that boy follows.

"Your makeup is beginning to fade, are you tryin' to take my advice?"

/No, you dipshit, I'm just trying to survive./

He steps in front of me with a sharp glare and an unhappy grimace, "Kid, just fuckin' talk to me."

I shake my head, holding a finger to my lips just before flipping him off and walking around him. This kid seemed intimidating at first, but now, he's just annoying. He growls and yanks me back by the collar of my jacket, sending my mind into a flurry as I fall to the ground and he stands over me, "If you fucking move, I will touch you. I read your file, I know what it does."

My eyes widen but I don't dare move, I can't go through with a flashback, not now and surely not ever again. I can't even think about it. It's too much. But my mind still goes off even worse when I hear that he read my file. He knows every dirty secret about me, he knows exactly what happened and I'm completely vulnerable to him. He could tell everyone if I make one wrong move, he could end it all and everyone would feel pity for me, everyone would know what I went through and my secret would be out.

"You grew up at a drughouse," Travis mumbles, "You're dangerous, you nearly killed your own foster brother. You're selectively mute, you have a close relationship with the agent who was set to your case originally. You were raped and beaten as a child, and there was another kid there, too. Pete Wentz."

I wince at the name, looking away but Travie only shakes his head, "He's coming today, y'know."

"What?"

My voice cracks and I'm absolutely horrified at myself that I would dare speak to a kid I barely even know but... but Pete's coming. When? Why? Is he really coming here? Will he recognize me? What will he say? Does he miss me? Why is he coming here? What happened? Was he framed?

Travie laughs, dark and disgusting as he begins to step away, "Apparently he was caught trying to kill himself. He was so wrapped up in his own guilt. What happened between you two, huh?"

I shake my head, beginning to slide away, Travie doesn't protest, he's already halfway down the hall, smiling to himself, beginning to talk to his boyfriend. I'm breaking, my hands are weaved in my hair and my eyes are wide and downcasted. Pete tried to kill himself? Why? How? Was it my fault? Because I blamed him for hitting me that one day? I still feel betrayed, I don't know /how/ it happened. Why he would hit me. I don't know if I'm ready to trust him, I don't know if I'm ready to forgive him for what he did. I doubt I ever will be ready. He hit me, and I'm both terrified and furious at him. He betrayed me, and it hurt. More than just physically.

Will he try to talk to me? Will he do it again? What if I get hurt? Does he still love me?

Does he still love me?

I shake my head from that thought, looking away from the floor and instead trying to make my way up. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Ed and Bob and Mike and Tre and Billie. I need some kind of comfort, even if it's from strangers I don't know. Even if they don't even care. 

My steps are hobbled and dizzy, my mind is blank and dark. I am afraid. I am so very afraid of what he's become, I'm so afraid of everything he could do to me and all the advantages he might have over me.

I'm not ready to see him. Not yet.

***

Breakfast goes by fast, we're forced to go outside for a bit and by that time, I have my notebook back in my hand and I'm furiously writing down everything that's happened as I lean back against the willow tree they have out here. It's terribly depressing, watching the kids try to climb the gate to the other side and fail miserably as they're pulled down by the staff. It's miserable as Ed and Bob and Mike sit beside me and talk about nonsense that comes to them. Ed keeps picking at his skin and it gets to the point where Mike just holds both his hands and squeezes them tight so Ed just /can't/ do anything about it.

I'm still writing, still stressing. I watch constantly for those hazel eyes that used to accompany my nightmares so many months ago. I've lost track of how long I've been here. They say it's already December 14th and I wouldn't be surprised, it's cold as all hell out here and these goddamn uniforms they put on us don't provide any vice. Instead I'm forced to huddle myself up and try not to catch a cold.

/December 14th?, 2017

/It's been almost a month since I first came here and I'm terrified right now. Pete is going to be here. He's gonna be a new arrival, he's gonna be here any time now and I am terrified. Travis told me about how he tried to kill himself and he was finally admitted here. Apparently Travis also read my file about everything that's happened to me. About the drughouse and /him/. I'm so afraid.

/I don't know what he'll do. Does he still care about me? Will he hurt me again? What's gonna happen to us?

/I'm cutting this short but I can't think straight right now. I apologize.

/-Patrick/

"Hey, Dude, did you hear about the new arrival?" Bob's words catch my ear as he speaks to Mike and Mike replies soon after with a, "No, who is it?"

"No idea but rumor says he'll be here in about five or so minutes."

"Is he really?" Ed pops in.

"Yeah," Bob looks to the door that leads into the institute, "Any minute now. You think he'll be hot?"

"I hope so. Cock's surprisingly easy to suck around here," Mike grins.

The door to the institute opens and my heart stops in my chest for a moment as a head of black hair crosses my vision. Much to my disappointment, though, it's only Billie with a wild grin and his jeans sagging slightly.

"Guys! Holy hell, he's here, he's coming out soon," Billie calls to us, running across the field and quickly buckling his pants, "He was right behind me I swear. He's /hot/."

I wince, eyes wide as I try to hide myself closer to the Willow tree and try not to break down.

The door opens again, this time, though, the hair is a shorter black. The same cut he had when we kissed on his bed for hours upon hours. Those hazel eyes look around nervously, anxiety pristine and sharp in them. He looks almost the same as he did the last time I saw him. He looks so much more anxious, though. So much more afraid.

And the moment our eyes meet, I know things will never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to update, writer's block was a huge bitch.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, next chapter will be out soon! Please leave a comment or a kudos, it really helps a ton!


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